Here are a few poems by Harold Norse, a wonderful poet I met a couple times in the 80s. His excelent autobiography is "Memoirs of a Bastard Angel" (Murrow). I recommend it.

Norse Essay

This Has Been Happening a Long Time

for Gerald Malanga

someone very familiar
tho' we've never met
fumbles around with his tool
shed while I crouch beside him
I request machine oil
for my squeaky bicycle
he hands me the oilcan
I notice his black velvet pants
with a flower design
our pants are identical
I reach up to tell him
with my hand that caresses the soft
material under which the hard
teenage thigh grows
more familiar
my hand explores his calf
the muscular buttocks and
something swelling in front
my mother calls Lunch Is Ready
he may be the brother I've wanted
we chat like blood relations
comfortable with each other
my mother rides a snow sleigh into the kitchen
she is having her problems
we laugh at her worries
we share an inner knowledge
he responds to my touch
with no visible emotion
I am growing upset
I reach for his penis
I hold it like an electric eel
electrons come in my hand
he seems to melt into the snow
and sound of sleigh bells
this has been happening a long time

San Francisco, ca. 1972, from "The Love Poems, 1940-1985" 

From the 6th Arrondissement

(excerpt from a Paris journal, 1961

Masturbate wildly. 3 a.m. A knock.
Throw open the door, naked.
Arab I used to know. No place
to stay. Crash here? OK. Shows
me his boat ticket. "I return
to Tunis in a week." Removes
his shoes & socks, revealing huge
dirty feet, swollen from tramping. Asks
for scissors, slowly cuts
all his fingernails, then toenails.
Removes his gray houndstooth suit.
His shorts are dirty.
Climbs into bed, mutters, "Je suis
trés fatigué." Loud snores.
Next morning, without a word, he dresses
& laying a cold hand briefly on my arm
leaves. Masturbate wildly.

from "Carnivorous Saint"

I'm Not a Man

I'm not a man. I can't earn a living, buy new things for my family.
I have acne and a small peter.

I'm not a man. I don't like football, boxing and cars.
I like to express my feelings. I even like to put an arm
around my friend's shoulder.

I'm not a man. I won't play the role assigned to me --the role
created by Madison Avenue, Playboy, Hollywood and Oliver Cromwell.
Television does not dictate my behavious. I am only 5 foot 4.

I'm not a man. Once when I shot a squirrel I swore that I would
never kill again. I gave up meat. The sight of blood makes me
sick. I like flowers.

I'm not a man. I went to prison resisting the draft. I do not fight
when real men beat me up and call me queer. I dislike violence.

I'm not a man. I have never raped a woman. I don't hate blacks.
I do not get emotional when the flag is waved. I do not think I should
love America or leave it. I think I should laugh at it.

I'm not a man. I have never had the clap.

I'm not a man. Playboy is not my favorite magazine.

I'm not a man. I cry when I'm unhappy.

I'm not a man. I do not feel superior to women.

I'm not a man. I don't wear a jockstrap.

I'm not a man. I write poetry.

I'm not a man. I meditate on peace and love.

I'm not a man. I don't want to destroy you.

San Francisco, 1972

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